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The nerve which controls the pen winds itself about every fibre of our being, threads the heart, pierces the liver.

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These scenes, by the way, are not altogether a literary device - a means of summing up and making a knot of innumerable little threads. Innumerable th...more

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She was almost felled to the ground by the extraordinary sight which now met her eyes. There was the garden and some birds. The world was going on as ...more

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And there he would lie all day long on the lawn brooding presumably over his poetry, till he reminded one of a cat watching birds, when he had found t...more